The Lieutenant
by Tevinter of our Discontent
Summary: Thanks to a wish from Flemeth, Ser Cauthrien is thrown back to the time of the Orlesian Occupation, where she will join Maric, Loghain and Rowan in their fight. The bad news: Cailan is dragged along with her. Consequently, she has to fight in a revolution and baby-sit the king at the same time. It will be a learning experience for both. AU, but some spoilers for Stolen Throne.
1. The Wish

Disclaimer: I own nothing and am not getting paid for this.

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Prologue: The Wish

She was eleven years old, or maybe twelve; her family was rich only in the number of children they had, and when you were, consequently, one of fourteen children, it was easy to lose track of exactly who was born when, or even who was named what. But while she hadn't started her monthlies yet, her shirts (handed down three times) were getting a bit tight across the chest, and not all because of her rib cage, so twelve seemed the likelier bet.

That day, she was working, having taken the sow and her piglets, all seventeen of them, out to the oak grove to root around for old acorns and mayhap find a few very valuable truffles into the bargain. You couldn't simply leave the piggies out there on their own, as they could stray off and get stolen or eaten, so she was keeping one eye on them while she dug for freshwater mussels in the brook. Anything for something more to _eat_, food being as scarce around their steading as one might expect when a family had sixteen to feed. She could build a tiny fire, use her metal pail as a pot, cook them with some pounded up wild garlic to add flavor, and have a little feast all by herself.

Then she heard the sounds of a creature in pain. Leaving the mussels where they were, she grabbed her switch and smacked a couple of piglets back toward the main group before she went to see what was making that noise. It turned out the be a half-grown bear cub in a thicket, one hind leg caught in a nasty old trap left over from the Bad Days when there was an Orlesian Moussir owning their lands and everything on them, including all the people. The trap looked to be half rust, but it clearly wasn't, because that cub was well and truly caught, its flesh torn and bleeding.

She knew what she ought to do. She ought to run and get her Da to come with the axe, and then there would be bear meat for the stew and a heavy fur hood for somebody's cape, maybe even hers. She knew what she _ought_ to do, there was no place for sentimentality or squeamishness in a peasant's life, and yet—the bear glared at her with almost human eyes, proud and pathetic and appealing all at the same times, and it whimpered between growls.

"Um…all right. I'm going to try and get this trap off you, see? And it'll go better if you don't go clawing at me or biting me while I do it. All right?" And—this was the part that sent a shiver down her spine—it looked her in the eye and nodded. It _did_. It even held still and didn't move while she worked out how to pull the pins out of the hinge, since the spring was too strong for her to stretch out enough. When the trap fell away, the bear changed.

"Maker!" Facing her was another girl about her own age, with black hair and vivid yellow eyes, dressed in a wild assortment of rags sewn together randomly, some of which she ripped off.

"My thanks. T'was most vexing being caught so, the more so because my mother would not look for me until dark. You've a bucket there, I see—Fetch me some water."

"Where I come from, we say please when we want a favor," she retorted, "and if I don't hear that first, you can fetch it yourself." She would never have dared to speak so if the shapeshifter was older or male, but a girl her own age? She wasn't about to take guff from _her._

"Where_I_ come from, we don't argue with people who can change themselves into bears. Please, then."

"All right," She hurried back to the brook, (rounding up a piglet along the way), filled her pail with water, and brought it back to the strange, wild girl.

The girl poured the water over her injured leg, hissing with pain as the blood sluiced away, then used her rags to dry and bind it. "I am Morrigan. May I know my rescuer's name?"

"Ca-Cauthrien."

"Ca-Ca-Cauthrien? Sounds like a crow. Well, Cauthrien, as you must have kenned by now, you have helped a witch, and it were best you held your tongue concerning it. Nevertheless—I do thank you. Goodbye."

Morrigan got up and limped off, leaving Cauthrien there holding the pail. _That was a witch. A__real__witch. She was a bear and then she turned into a person_. Any lingering sense of amazement (mingled with a certain quantity of terror, to be entirely honest) was interrupted by one of the piglets, who began squealing as if it were being gutted alive. It wasn't; it was only bitten by a horsefly, but it was a reminder that life was more about work than about magic and wonder, at least when you were the tenth (or was it the eleventh?) of fourteen children on a farm.

She was herding the pigs back across the far meadow once the light was turning golden and the shadows growing long when the dragon swooped down on her. Her first thought was _Storm cloud? It didn't look like rain_, as the immense darkness folded over her with a rush of wind and the smell of ozone. All the pigs screamed and scattered to the four corners of the earth, and then she looked up.

Scales. Teeth. Talons. An immense clawed hand slammed her down to the ground, pinning her there, and she covered her head with her arms, curling up as small as she could, hiding her face. I hope it doesn't hurt long… The thing's body warmth was hotter than the smith's forge at high summer.

"A little brown tangle-headed thing that smells like pigs, my Morrigan said," a woman's voice rasped, hoarse like she'd been breathing smoke for thirty years, "and you are the only little brown tangle-headed thing in the vicinity. I shall not comment on the smell. It would be a case of the pot calling the kettle black. You are Cauthrien, are you not? You can stop cowering now, I'm not going to eat you. I owe you a debt, and I am very prompt about settling my debts. Had Morrigan lost a leg, it would have put quite a crimp in my plans."

Cauthrien rolled over and opened one eye. Instead of a giant dragon, a woman crouched over her, sitting on her haunches. She looked very ordinary, with grizzled hair and drab clothes.

"Ah, that's better," the woman said, her voice tinged with amusement. "Hmm. Little, brown and tangle-headed you may be, but by happy accident, you've quite good bone structure. Brow, cheekbones, chin—you'll be a beauty before long. Also by happy accident, you've a decent brain under all that hair. You're the odd one out in your brood, aren't you? Although you've learned to hide it... You dream of things other than pigs and harvests and babies. You don't want to be married at fifteen and old by thirty and dead before you're forty like your mother."

"My…mother? I'm sure my mother's more than forty. Ma'am," she added.

"And polite, too! At least to your elder. I understand you served Morrigan some of her own sauce. The woman you call your mother is actually your grandmother, child. You know the one who birthed you as your eldest sister—you were an unexpected gift left behind in her belly after a festival night. Did you never think to look in a mirror and wonder where you got your features, so unlike the rest?"

"We don't own a mirror, ma'am."

"My name is Flemeth, child. Forget what I said; your mother as you know her is your mother in all but birthing you. Now, how shall I reward you? I know. I shall grant you a wish. That's traditional, is it not?"

Cauthrien brightened up. "A wish? I'd like—."

"Not so fast. Humans are _endless_ wish-generators. You wish it were noon so you could eat your lunch; you wish you were taller, you even wish you were dead, or you say you do. Every day of your life you wish for a hundred things. If wishes were golds, we'd all be richer than kings. You'll get your wish—one only, none of this business of three and _certainly_ no wishing for more wishes. You'll get it, and it will get you your heart's desire, _but you'll have to work for it_!

"It must be an utterly unselfish wish, too, and you can't be aware you're making it. It won't come until you've forgotten about it, when years have passed over our heads, and this encounter is no more than a dim recollection of your last summer of childhood, when you've convinced yourself I and my daughter were no more than a daydream. That is my gift to you. I wish you well, Cauthrien—and I do not do that often."

Standing up, Flemeth changed again, this time into a more elegant and queenly version of herself, with silver hair swept up into horns and a reddish mail dress. "Goodbye. We will meet again—eventually."

Then she was once again a dragon, and with mighty wingbeats, leapt up into the air.

"Wait!" Cauthrien cried, "If my sister's my mother, then who's my fa—." The words were lost in a sudden crack of thunder, and fat cold drops of rain pelting down. "The pigs!" Again, real life intruded. The pigs had to be found, or there would be no meat that winter.

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A/N: You can blame this plot bunny on Herebedragons66 and Dragonmactir._** Thanks a lot!**_ Grumblegrumble like I need any more ideas grumblewhinemoan.


	2. Doubts About The Wisdom of Monarchy

It was a simple fact: Even kings had to piss, that being one of the few things other people can't do for them.

Normally it was simple enough; castles had garderobes and chamber pots with plenty of servants to tend them and supply water for washing, towels for drying, and little squares of flannel for wiping when necessary. All but the most inbred of monarchs could manage the actual elimination and clean up on their own. However, when an army was on the march to deal with what might or might not be the start of a Blight, skirting the Korcari Wilds along the way, and a king has to piss, he can't simply leave the formation and find a handy tree or boulder. He has to have an escort, lest someone or something sneak up on him.

Ser Cauthrien, now lieutenant of Maric's Hand, the elite Royal guard force, was the 'lucky' one this time. Holding the reins of both her horse and King Cailan, she waited. And waited. Granted, the codpiece on full plate armor was designed for groin protection rather than ease of access, but what could be taking him so long? Had he picked up a dose of the clap somewhere, making it painful for him to urinate? She had no sympathy for him in either case. Men didn't have to drop their britches every single time like women did, which was extremely inconvenient when in armor. Women warriors learned early on to restrict how much they ate and drank to avoid calls of nature at the wrong moment.

Kings learned no such restraint—or at least Cailan hadn't, which was all that mattered.

On the face of it, Cailan was all anyone could want a young king to be: tall, handsome, well-built, with hair as golden as the sun and a smile as just bright and warm. More than that, he was merry and cheerful, the best of good fellows, with not the slightest trace of malice or viciousness in him.

Sadly, he was also a twit.

He was a good rider—as long as he had a very well-trained and docile mount.

He was a fine huntsman, as long as there were gamekeepers to beat the bushes and drive animals and birds into the path of his bow.

He was a mighty warrior who had never fought in a battle or in anything other than a training session or practice bout, with tutors and opponents who knew better than to injure the king in any way, including injuring his pride.

He was a peerless lover, every whore and courtesan he bedded assured him—to his face. What they said afterwards to their friends might well be very different. His wife, however, did_ not_ assure him he was a peerless lover, and _that_ was a whole other problem. There was no child begotten by him on either side of the blanket.

Many people blamed Queen Anora for that, but Cauthrien, former farm girl that she was, knew that when you had a ram tupping a whole field of ewes and no lambs to show for it come Spring, it was time to try a new ram rather than blame the ewes. Unfortunately that was not an option here. Cailan was the only ram they had, and they were stuck with him.

Even then, it might not have been so bad, but the king had no taste for governance, and left everything to his Queen and the Council while leading a life in the pursuit of his every pleasure, spending money like it was water and swilling ale and wine like they were water. Now his desire to prove himself a great general and brawny fighter had him as excited as a boy with a box of toy soldiers.

Cauthrien was not so excited, but then she had actually been in action before.

Why wasn't there a better way of choosing who ruled a country other than relying on who bedded whom and trusting that the resulting baby would grow up to be fit to do it?

And what was taking him so long?

"Lieutenant, see if you can't hunt out some nice broad, flat leaves for me, if you would," Cailan called from a thicket.

Ah. He'd had to do more than just piss. Looping the reins over a tree limb, she headed back toward the clearing where there was a tall mullein plant with big soft furry leaves, just the thing for the Royal Bum.

It had been years since she had thought about the witches and the wish, mainly because she thought she had already had her wish come true when, a dozen years before, she had come across a man being attacked by bandits and leapt in to help him. She might not have been of much practical help, but the man had turned out to be Loghain Mac Tir, and he had seen something in her worth training.

Today she was the lieutenant of Maric's Hand… and she was out here picking leaves so His Majesty could wipe his arse.

Ah, there was one of the old Orlesian-Occupation era marker stones, left from when Meghran had reapportioned lands to his followers and favorites. Someone had taken a sledgehammer to it, and the chunks were overgrown by moss and softened by the weather, but she could still make out the coat of arms. Thirty years before, this young forest might have been grassland; too far from any steading, it wasn't likely to have been fields.

She ought to have enough leaves now, unless Cailan had the runs or something. "Here you are, Your Majesty," she said, handing them into the depths of the thicket.

"My thanks, Lieutenant."

"You're welcome, Sire." She moved upwind and looked towards the Wilds. If this was a Blight, if it was not just an unusually heavy break-out of Darkspawn, what good would it do to have the King here in needless danger? But he was so excited about fighting alongside the heroic Grey Wardens...and he was King. Cauthrien was no mage nor seer, but she had uneasy forebodings about this all the same.

When she thought about it afterwards, she realized she must have made her wish _then_, at that moment, yet exactly what she had wished for, how she had put it, she never knew. I wish Cailan were a better man? I wish Cailan weren't the king? I wish Fereldan had the king she needs? I wish, I wish…

There was a mist coming up off the Wilds, thick and swirling—and spreading very fast. Oh, that did not look good _at all_.


	3. The Mists of Time

When the mist reached Cauthrien and swept over her, it was like being tangled in a spider web, one still cool and wet with the morning dew. Not so bad, one might think, until one remembered how monstrous spiders in the Wilds could get, especially in the caves which dotted the region—the size of a destrier, or larger still. Speaking of destriers, though, the horses were making sounds of surprise but not panic—that was good.

"Lieutenant?" the king called.

"Here, your Majesty!" She could hear Cailan crashing around in the underbrush, a distinct relief. If anything happened to the King while he was in her charge, it would be on her head. She did not fear the wrath of the Maker half so much as that of Loghain Mac Tir, Commander of the King's Armies and Teryn of Gwaren. After all, she knew Loghain was real, whereas the existence of Maker was questionable at best. The Teryn's disapproval alone would…but that was neither here nor there because _nothing_ was going to happen to the King on her watch. _Nothing_.

"This mist seems to have sprung up out of nowhere. What do you think can have caused it?" Cailan wondered, "The day was clear a moment ago."

"So it was, your Majesty," she replied. "I know no more than you do. The Wilds are not like other lands. It may clear up—." Even as she said the words, the mist thinned. "as quickly as it came. See?"

The landscape was changed. Instead of young trees and underbrush, there were sere grasses and saplings. The time of year, the time of day were changed; it was hours later, by the height of the sun in the sky, and at least a month later, by the look of the vegetation. "How odd," Cailan looked about.

"Odd and _wrong_, Sire. Look," she pointed to the marker stone, intact and freshly cut. "A moment ago that stone was broken and overgrown, crumbling. Now it looks as though it were placed yesterday. This is magic at work, or I know nothing of the world. What it means, I cannot say."

"Magic?!" the King exclaimed. "You mean the beginning of an adventure!"

"I pray not, your Majesty, for I hear no one about, where before the bulk of your army was in earshot or within the sound of my signal horn. Your horse, Sire. We ought to seek out a place to shelter for the night, and on the morrow, find out what is going on."

"You have no heart in you for adventure? I would hope a member of my guard would have more spirit than that!" Cailan took the reins and swung himself up into the saddle.

"For you it may well be an adventure. For I, who am charged with your safety, it is an anxiety. I advise we make for Lothering; it is not too far and—."

"Lothering? Nay, we set out for Ostagar and Ostagar is where we shall go. Onward!" He showily reared his horse up and galloped off toward the road.

"Wonderful. He'll break his horse's leg doing that off the road," Cauthrien allowed herself to grumble before she got on her horse and followed him. Adventures, in her experience, meant constant danger, cold, wet feet, and never knowing when or what your next hot meal would be.

A few leagues down the road they encountered the chevaliers. Luckily there were only six of them. Unluckily, Cailan rode right up to them, with a tremendous smile on his face.

"Hail and well met, mes amis. Ride you to join the Grey Wardens at Ostagar? I would not have thought Loghain would unbend enough to admit you through our borders."

The Orlesian chevaliers looked at him as Orlesians usually looked at Fereldans: as though they smelled something bad. "Heard you the barking of a dog?" one asked another.

"I am sure I heard something like it. Mais oui, I certainly smell dog shit. Go away, dog lordling, you occupy space in my eyes I need for surveying the wastelands behind you." The party of knights laughed.

Cailan's face was comically astounded. "Know you not who I am?"

"Some lick-spittle lordling who bent the knee to King Meghran and retains his lands—for now. Hah, he has very pretty armor, this one, a pretty horse and a pretty follower to ride behind him. What is your holding? It must be a rich one. I shall ask His Majesty for it come Satinalia!" roared the leader.

"I am King Cailan, and you are—."

"Of course he is not, there is no king but the cousin of the Emperor," Cauthrien called out, desperate. Six was not too many for her to take on alone, but she wasn't alone. No doubt Cailan would want to help. "Forgive him, my lords. For all that he looks a man grown, he is…prone to fancies. His noble father—I pray you, heed him not, harm him not, and I will keep better guard over him."

"Ah, a poor lack-wit, is it? And you are his nurse-maid? What would you do to keep him safe?"

"What I must," Cauthrien replied.

What followed was not pretty. Her sword, the Summer Sword, had a history, related to her by Loghain Mac Tir when he gifted her with it at her knighting. The last blade made by the master smith Vercenne, it was made for the youngest son of a Grand Champion. The young Orlesian rejected it as old-fashioned, clumsy and barbaric—one might almost say, 'Fereldan'. His father, angered by the callow way his son disdained the last masterpiece of a genius, insisted that his son take it anyway, or be disinherited. He could make the lad take it; he could not make him learn how to use it, so when the young man, no longer quite so young and the most depraved and hated Chevalier in Fereldan, was disarmed of his fashionable blade, and had to rely on the Summer Sword, Loghain cut him down like the last leaf of summer.

Hence, this generation of Orlesians did not know how much damage a 'clumsy' weapon like a greatsword could deal. When you were horsed, and could use the strength and momentum of the horse to augment your arm, it could be devastating.

It was the same principle as jousting with a lance, but lances were too often one-use-only weapons, too heavy, too long, too awkward, prone to breaking on impact, and slow. In truth, they were better suited to the tourney field than to melee combat. A greatsword, on the other hand, where all that strength and momentum were concentrated into the well-honed edge, or on the point—.

Thinking themselves nearly kings in their own right, the chevaliers were not expecting any real opposition, and on her first charge, she sheared a chevalier's arm off at the elbow, hitting the vulnerable inner joint—a survivable injury, if someone tied it off immediately. Instantly incapacitating, however . On her second, she unhorsed another, and rode over him, hearing things crunch under her horse's hooves, the sound nearly drowned out by screaming.

By the third, they were ready. A glance at Cailan told her he was in no immediate danger—except perhaps from himself. He had, in drawing his own greatsword, nicked his earlobe and shorn off some of his hair—a mistake made by greenhorns who hadn't practiced how to draw enough. Now she was beset by the remaining four, who were in enough of a fury to hack her in bits. Parrying the nearest, she took the blow of the second's estoc on her more heavily armored shoulder in order to thrust the point of her blade between the ribs of his horse, which went down screaming.

Cailan swept down upon the third, raining down blows indiscriminately about the chevalier's head and shoulders. He was lacking in technique, but his greater strength and long reach compensated for that. The fourth chevalier, though, got in a slice at the back of the king's calf, but took a wild blow to the scalp in exchange, leaving a flap of skin dangling and welling blood as only scalp wounds could. Temporarily blinded, he dropped his defense to wipe his eye, and Cailan finished him with a thrust into the ribcage from the armpit.

The chevalier whose thrust she'd parried now interposed his horse between hers and the man who was trying to roll his dead steed off himself. She took his blow on her sword, pressing forward—the unfashionable, barbaric greatsword did help in keeping one's enemies further off—so he could not regain the leverage or space to get in another. Meanwhile, Cailan reared his horse up to kick—and over did it, making his steed stumble and nearly tip over backward.

Cauthrien's opponent had a stiletto in his off hand, and he made a slice with it under her sword, but only scraped it on her armor. That move left his neck vulnerable, and she took advantage, half beheading him. Blood fountained everywhere. The chevalier whose horse was dead now tried to make a run for the horse of the man who had lost his forearm—he was now dead, bled out but still in the saddle. In trying to pull his compatriot off, he left himself open.

That left one alive and still on horseback. Seeing how badly off he was, he chose to spin his mount around and gallop as if all the shades in the Fade were after him. Cailan gave chase, which meant Cauthrien had to follow. They ran him to ground a quarter of a mile away.

"Don't kill him yet!" Cauthrien shouted. "Monsieur, as you hope to gain the Golden City, what year is this? _What year is this?"_ But it was too late. Blood, not words emerged from his mouth, and he choked out his life.

First things first. "Your Majesty, your leg must be seen to—." Cailan's skin was waxy, and she thought he was swaying in the saddle.

"No, no, the boot turned the blade. I'm just—." Abruptly he leaned over and vomited. _Ah. He never killed a man before today. _He reached for his flask, rinsed his mouth, spat, and then drank. "That's better. Lieutenant, what was that about asking the year? You know it as well as I do."

"There you are mistaken, Sire. The marker stone I remarked on dated from the Occupation, and never, never would a party of so many chevaliers be allowed to roam about Fereldan like that. Do you but recall who the chevaliers referred to? King Meghren, the Usurper. I suspect we have been displaced back into that time. " She dismounted and began to search the corpse.

"I hardly think that can be possible—what are you_ doing_?" Cailan's eyebrows rose.

"The spoils of war, your Majesty." The dead chevalier had five sovereigns on him, as well as an intricate gold neck chain of Antivan make, and his weapons, an estoc and a poignard. All those she took. His armor was no doubt more valuable, but too bulky and difficult to explain to a merchant. The saddlebags on his horse yielded two clean shirts, a wine flask, some jerked meat, and a cache of perfumed letters. "And here is the proof of my suspicions. " She held out a letter which began with the date: **_23 Molioris 8.96_**. "The magic, whatever it was or whoever cast it, has sent us back in time some thirty four years. Now come, we must get back to the other corpses before anyone else does." She mounted her horse and looked to Cailan.

"It is not for you to give me orders, Lieutenant."

"I beg your pardon, Sire, but my first consideration is and must always be the safety of your person. The oath I swore as one of Maric's Hand, the oath which you accepted of me, places that duty above and beyond all else, including following your orders. Or even waiting for them. I would stand before any court martial in the land with that as my defense, and provided I succeeded in that duty, none would convict me. If I fail in it, none would pardon me for any reason, save only my own death. Now come. We have few enough resources without wasting whatever those Orlesians had on them."

By the truculent set of his jaw, she could tell that little of what she had said had made an impression on him, nor had the implications of this misstep in time sunk in either. Cauthrien wasn't sure she even understood what had happened yet, not fully. She did not look forward to having to explain it to the king in detail, but it would likely be inevitable—once she had worked it out for herself, that is.

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A/N: Tremendous thanks and much love to my readers and reviewers, Enchanter T.I.M. and Golden Naginata. You rock like no other.


	4. Bad Decisions

"I'm glad that chevaliers aren't like that anymore," Cailan commented as the lieutenant handed him the first skewer of horse meat straight off the fire. She had field-butchered the horse she killed during the fight. He had watched her do it with some disgust, for horses were noble animals. He had often watched huntsmen and gamekeepers do the same to his kills while hunting, mildly interested, the same as if he watched ants build their mound. They had wound up at Ostagar after all, because it was a ruin and deserted, she said.

"What makes you think they're not? Your Majesty." She added the last words as almost an afterthought. Her attitude was beginning to irk him. He slid a chunk of meat from the skewer. It was tough.

"I do receive ambassadors at court with all their retinues, and they've been the very soul of courtesy. I'm in correspondence with Celene herself, and she is the epitome of every social and womanly grace."

"Well, of course they're on their best behavior around you, Sire. You're the king. I can tell you that when they go among lesser mortals, their attitude is no different, even if they are required to be less violent and greedy. If anything, they're even more insulting, especially around and to people who cannot respond in kind." She took the second skewer, which she had whittled from an oak branch.

He gaped at her a moment. "I'm sure that can't be right. _La Fleur des Chevaliers_ lays out the code by which they live—."

"That's a book of epic poetry, your Majesty, not a guide to knightly living. In the real world, people behave quite differently. Now, during our ride here, I put much thought into what we should do. We do not know how long we will be caught in this time—it may end at any moment, or we may have to live through all thirty-four years of it. Since we cannot count on the former, we should plan for the latter. That is to say, form a long term plan. Joining the Orlesians is out of the question—."

"It seems to me you are taking a great deal on yourself," Cailan snapped. It was time to nip this tendency toward insolence in the bud, before it grew further.

"Forgive me. I did not mean to speak out of turn. What are your thoughts on the matter?" she deferred politely.

"I—never mind. You've begun, you might as well finish. Just remember who is king." In truth, he had no ideas whatsoever. In adventure tales, there was always some guide, often mystical, which turned up to tell the hero what had to be done.

"Right now, Meghren is king. Your grandmother is either the Rebel Queen, never officially recognized by the Chantry or the entire Landsmeet, or she is dead and your father is but an uncrowned prince, hunted and hounded by the sort of flowers of knighthood we met with today. The only two people who know there is such a person as Cailan Theirin, King of Fereldan, are you and I, and you saw for yourself how people respond when you claim what you are." she retorted.

"There is no way you can claim your throne. 'You' do not yet exist. Your parents are not even married yet. However, you look very much like your father, dangerously so. Not enough to be mistaken for him if you stood side by side, but enough that you might be taken for him by those who are after his head. We must change how you look—dye your hair, cut it, stain your skin, and find you less conspicuous armor. Then I propose we seek out the Rebellion forces and join with them, I as Ser Cauthrien, a knight from the Free Marches, and you...as my squire, Cale Bourne."

"What?" Cailan sputtered. "As _your_ squire? That's ridiculous! Why not as two knights-or I as the knight and you the squire? Surely that would be more fitting-." Cauthrien, _that_ was her name! He had been wracking his brain to think of it for hours.

"Because when I draw my blade I don't take a chunk out of my own earlobe," Cauthrien pointed to the scab on his ear. "That's a sign of the greenest of greenhorns. Any sergeant would have trained that out of you in the first week. Because you don't know how to field-dress a kill, let alone cut it up. Because you do not even know how to build a fire. All your life, these things have been done for you. The world has been padded with fleece for you every day since you were born, between those who did not dare risk the only heir to the throne of Fereldan, and those who sought to curry favor with the future king. They did you a disservice by coddling you so.

"You would be a better man and a better king, I think, if you knew some adversity and hardship. Perhaps this is the Maker's way of seeing that you get it. Besides, you cannot claim to be anyone of note; people will want proof. I've more in mind regarding how and why we're here, but that can wait."

"I don't believe what I'm hearing!" Cailan was still spluttering. "How dare you? I am your king. You are sworn to serve me!"

"Above all else, I am sworn to protect you, if you will recall. What then should we do? I am more than willing to hear you out, if you've a plan of your own."

Cauthrien waited as Cailan opened his mouth, closed it again, then grated out between his teeth. "I will not pretend to be your squire. Perhaps I did nick my ear on drawing my sword, but I never drew it in battle before, and perhaps I lack the skills every _peasant_ can boast of. Yet I am a prince and I was trained by the best swordmasters money could buy, and am more than your equal."

"Fine. Let us prove it, then." Cauthrien stood up and put her dagger to the side where the Summer Sword lay. "You see, I have set my blades aside, it being treason to draw steel upon your Majesty, but you should take up yours. I propose then that we duel until one of us yields, and the loser must then follow all orders of the victor without question. I will meet you unarmed against your greatsword, and spare me not for that I am a woman; I am first a knight, after all."

"I don't want to hurt you."

"Do not take that into consideration. I have taken wounds in your service before, and no doubt shall again. Come at me, Sire."

He did, but gingerly. She had him disarmed in one move and flat on his back in another.

"Spare me not, I said, for I shall not spare you. I'll show you no false kindness."

Again, she disarmed him in seconds, left him on the ground with the breath knocked out of him. "You had the best swordmasters money could buy, but I had Loghain Mac Tir, who money could never buy. You might have trained with him, but Arl Eamonn objected, saying that it was bad enough you were betrothed to Loghain's daughter without giving that jumped-up baseborn dog even more influence over you. Your uncle did you no favor. Again, your Majesty-unless you yield?"

"Never!"

'Never' did not last very long. A humiliatingly short time later, she was kneeling on his back, with his arm wrenched up behind him. "Keep pulling like that, and your shoulder will come apart," she remarked. "I can pop it back in for you, but that will hurt almost as bad as having it dislocated. Do you yield?"

He hoped she did not see that it was his tears as well as his sweat which made mud of the dust under his face. "Yes—damn you!"

"Very likely," she said as she released him. "I very likely will be damned before I return you to your throne, but I _will_ do my duty by you."

He got to his feet, hurting all over. "You—you _shrew_."

She nodded. "Fair enough. Thank you for not using a worse word for an unpleasant woman." Cauthrien gave him an assessing look as if he were a horse she might buy. Then she deliberately and coolly broke his nose with one punch from her gauntleted fist.

It _hurt_. It hurt so bad all his other senses dimmed out and the world became very far away and his extremities went icy. All of a sudden his knees went to water and he folded up.

"Damn it, don't you go into shock on me now!" She grabbed him, made him sit up with his head down between his knees, and gave him whisky from a flask.

"Get…away from… me…What…why did you do that?" he asked through numb lips.

"To change your face and save your life. Now you don't look so much like your father. Don't worry, once it heals it can be rebroken and reset. You'll be just as pretty as you were before. Sit there and don't try to get up for a while. I'm going to gather black walnuts so we can dye your hair."

He sat there, and gradually the pain receded. His humiliation and anger did not, but they were tempered by…fear. For five years and more, the lieutenant, that is, Cauthrien, because she hadn't always been a lieutenant, had been one of his guards. His guards were, well, really just like part of the furniture, like all servants. They said yes and no, they cautioned him against going to the more amusing places around Denerim, like the Pearl and the Stews and gambling dens, they were polite and obedient and…boring.

When she started expressing opinions, no, when she started _giving him orders_ and _**insulting**_ him, he could not have been more surprised if an armchair or a side table had done so. Was it possible that all his life, guards and servants had not just been serving him and guarding him, but watching what he did, listening to what he said and _judging_ him? Did they talk about him when they were together? _Laugh_ about him?

He felt as though he had been going around naked and no one had bothered to tell him.

What a hateful woman Cauthrien was!

However, he was by nature inclined to be optimistic and cheerful, not introspective, and soon enough he had dismissed such foolish, childish fears and quashed any doubts he might have entertained about his ability to manage on his own. This was an adventure, _his_ adventure. He was determined to enjoy it.

Obviously, Cauthrien was only going to hold him back. He humored her for the rest of the evening, letting her brew up some dark and acrid liquid which she then doused his head with, (although it was humiliating when he found he could not take off his armor without her assistance.) He let her chatter about the details of that story she had concocted to account for their presence. In the middle of the night, when she was fast asleep, he quietly got up, took half the provisions, such as they were, left his armor, as he couldn't get it back on alone, either, took up his sword, saddled his horse, and took off into the Wilds, seeking his destiny.

Meanwhile, not too far away from the camp at Ostagar, Loghain looked over at Maric, huddled under a sodden cloak, shivering and uncharacteristically silent. Maric sneezed, then hacked out a clot of greenish-yellow phlegm laced with threads of bright blood.

* * *

A/N: Next chapter, some of these people meet, and at least one of them meets Flemeth. Thanks to my wonderful reviewers Enchanter T.I.M. and Morninglight. Luv ya!


	5. Meetings

A/N: In many fantasy novels and games, writers and programmers have a way of treating horses as if they were bicycles; that is, as non-living machines without personalities which are ready whenever you are and do exactly what you want them to. They never get tired, hungry, thirsty, or colicky, they never follow you around demanding attention or apples, never poop, never have to be unsaddled or curried, never get spooked or pick up stones in their shoes or smack you in the face with their tails. They also never step on your foot when you're wearing sandals and leave your toes black and blue for the better part of a month. This chapter is therefore dedicated to a horse I used to ride sometimes back in my tweens: Black Jack, or The Great Spotted One. He belonged to my cousin on my mom's side, the ones who still lived in the country. He passed away a few years ago, but I remember him well.

* * *

Cailan's horse, Imperator, was known in the Royal stables as 'the Imp'. While he was indeed docile and well-schooled while being ridden, he was a bundle of mischief when it came to getting there, having a dozen little tricks Cailan knew nothing about. He loved being brushed, so he took every opportunity to roll in dust until his pale gold coat was unrecognizable, just so he'd have to be brushed again. He drew in a deep breath and puffed out his sides while being saddled, so the girth would be loose when he relaxed. Naturally that meant the saddle would also be loose, and his usual handler knew that trick well, retightening the straps when the Imp wasn't expecting it. He also had a way of getting the bit between his teeth when being bridled instead of letting it slide down to the back of his mouth where it belonged. A horse with the bit in its teeth is a horse who is in control.

Consequently, Cailan did not get very far into the Wilds before he realized the saddle just wasn't staying in place where it should. Going at a trot, he was bouncing more than usual, and coming down on bony bits of his horse's spine, causing more than a little discomfort for his Crown Jewels, as it were. Then a _butterfly_, a silly, fluttering, flapping yellow _butterfly_, bobbed up in Imperator's face, and the Imp bolted in terror, or maybe just for the fun of it. His Majesty held on for the first three bounces, but on the fourth, he and Imperator parted company. It could have been worse; he landed on sand, not rock or hard ground, but it was so painful and jarring he felt like he had when Cauthrien broke his nose the night before, with the whole world retreating somewhere very far away from him, leaving him in a cold, echoing void. He did manage to roll over before he vomited, but after that he thought he would just stay right where he was until he felt better…

* * *

Maric looked no better than last night, in Loghain's estimation, and if anything, a bit worse. Now he seemed to be suffering from chills alternating with bouts of fever, and the wads he hacked up were even lumpier and bloodier. The worse sign of all was how quiet the prince was. Loghain never thought he would miss the endless talking, but now he would gladly have put up with anything Maric had to say. No, the future king, the greatest rallying point for the Rebellion, was seriously ill and growing more so.

Neither of them had any medicine, and maybe some of these plants were medicinal herbs, but if it wasn't elfroot, Loghain wouldn't recognize it. Scowling, he put a few more twigs on the fire, knowing that every moment it burned, they risked their lives. Yet Maric needed the warmth. Should the Orlesians see the plume of smoke, it might well mean their deaths.

Wait! What was that? A large animal, no, two large animals coming towards them, from the sounds of it—not predators, no. Animals with hooves. Deer, perhaps a couple of halla? No. Bigger than that. An elk? As quietly as he could, he reached for his bow and his quiver. If it was potentially food, he was going to shoot it. If it was Orlesians, the same.

"So you managed to get a fire going on your own? Bravo." A woman's voice drawled cynically. She was not Orlesian, by the sound of it. That did not mean she was not an Orlesian ally. "You seem to have mislaid your horse and your supplies, however. I found Imperator wandering around without his saddle and a 'Who, me?' look on his face, and—." She came into view, and froze.

So did Loghain. She was mounted on a dappled grey war horse, leading another steed by its reins, and she wore heavy armor made to her measure in good red steel. That was a greatsword strapped to her back as well, but it was her face he couldn't tear his eyes away from. That _face_… A couple of strands of her brown hair framed it, setting off the high cheekbones, the tender mouth and the defiant chin. Her eyes were intelligent. She looked noble enough to be of the highest rank, in his estimation. More importantly, she did not look Orlesian or even like a possible spy. Then again, spies never did look like spies. That was the whole point.

"I beg your pardon, sers," She made a gesture of placation. "I mean you no ill whatsoever. I mistook you for someone else. My squire, in fact. I am Ser Cauthrien of Kirkwall, and I have misplaced my squire. I do not suppose you have seen a great big lout with streaky dark hair and a freshly broken nose blundering around, have you?"

"No. What business have you here?" Loghain did not lower his bow. He knew he was staring. He couldn't away from her face, but that did not mean he trusted her. She, in turn, looked like…was she _blushing_? She was also staring back at him.

"I told you, I am seeking my idiot squire."

"I mean, _Ser _Cauthrien of Kirkwall, what is a Free Marcher doing in Fereldan? Are you some hireling to an Orlesian Lord? Even to King Meghren, perhaps?"

"On my word, I am not," she said, feelingly. "Kirkwall's ruler may use the title 'Viscount', but we bear no more love for them than you do. My business here is my own, and since we are not on terms of great friendship, I shall keep my business to myself. That drawn bow of yours gives me small reason to trust you, ser. I would be on my way, to find my squire before he gets himself into worse trouble, and so I bid you 'Good day'."

She would have turned her horse and been off, but Maric broke out into a long and extended coughing fit. He was so out of it that he only looked up at the two of them with uncomprehending eyes, too ill to care.

"Your friend sounds very ill, and looks worse than he sounds," she said, and looked around at their camp, such as it was. "You have no gear with you, or any packs. You are not thieves or ruffians, or you would have tried to rob me already. Therefore you are in some sort of trouble. It's none of my business, but out of common humanity, will you let me give you a packet of herbs that may do him some good?"

"Why should you bother?" Loghain demanded. "What is he to you, or I, that you care?"

"Ooh, perhaps it's those clear blue eyes of yours; they've pierced my heart, and so it bleeds," she retorted, rolling her eyes. "Or maybe I took a vow in the Chantry to do one good deed every day, and I'm backed up on my quota. What does it matter, if it does him good? Take the medicine for him or not, as you please. If you can refrain from shooting me long enough to let me get my medicine pouch, I'll get it out."

He lowered the bow, letting the string go slack, watched her open a saddle bag and eventually come out with an envelope, which she tossed to the ground between them. "Make a tea of them, and have him drink it; they can be steeped three or four times before they're spent. I'll be on my way. I cannot promise to be gone for good; until I find my squire, I may well ride around in circles for hours." She turned the horses and rode off.

He made no move to pick up the medicine as yet. He had never looked at anything but her face, memorizing it. _I will remember this when I am very old,_ he realized, _I will not forget until death wipes clean my slate_.

"I am Loghain Mac Tir," he called after her suddenly. "Not 'Ser', not 'Lord' nor 'Bann' or 'Viscount' or anything but…a man."

She stopped, turned her horse so she could look at him again. "That I never doubted for a moment," she replied, and her voice sounded…choked up. "Keep well, Loghain Mac Tir. I suspect we'll meet again."

* * *

Elsewhere, Flemeth frowned. Something was off, somewhere, somehow, in the tapestry of events and people she was weaving, metaphorically. And as anyone who works in the needle arts knows, one dropped stitch, or one added in, can make the entire piece go awry. Yet it felt like her own work all the way—there was no strange element in it. Reeling her vision back to yesterday, she found the wooly cloud of mist sticking out like a pulled thread. "Now who are these two?" she pondered. It would seem I brought them here, or sent them here, but why would I do such a thing? Hmmmm….Tch. Already changes are happening."

She felt along Cauthrien's thread, following her to the intersection with Loghain and Maric. "Aahhh. A tallish, brown-haired warrior woman, resolute of purpose, with a noble heart and a decent brain, encountered just at the time he's psychologically primed to become infatuated with a tallish, brown-haired warrior woman furnished with plenty of resolution, nobility, and intelligence. Rather blows that artistic little love triangle wide open, what a pity. It fit the trope so very well. Yet I can't quite make out where the other one went…Ah, there he is. And quite nearby? How very convenient."

* * *

Cailan came to in an exact replica of his own war tent: exact, because Flemeth had drawn the details from his mind."I—uh—what happened? Ser Cauthrien—?" He levered himself up on his cot, curtained with finest white samite, and looked around. The motion made his nose ache, and he felt it carefully. "Then this is not a dream, or not entirely. Is there no one here to attend upon the King of Fereldan?" He raised his voice when he asked the last question.

"Upon the King of Fereldan, no. I would not cross the road to spit on Meghren," said a very sultry voice that had to belong to a comely older woman, and so it did. She undulated into his field of view. Her yellow eyes had creases around them, as did her mouth, lines that spoke of ready smiles. Her hair was silver, swept up into an elaborate style with ribbons and jeweled pins, but the breasts revealed by her low-cut bodice were high, firm, ample, and begging to be better admired. Taken as a whole, although she was a bit long in the tooth, this lady was still quite toothsome. "But Cailan Theirin, he's another story altogether…"

* * *

Loghain examined the herbs before he steeped them, and found nothing that was obviously deathroot or any other common poison, but just to be sure, he took a swallow of the brew and waited for an adverse reaction. All that happened was that his nose ran a little, which could only be a good thing if it were meant for a respiratory ailment. Then he helped Maric drink. About half an hour later, the prince was sitting up on his own and talking once more.

"So a mysterious lady knight rode out of the morning mists to give you medicine for me." Maric looked at the second steeping of potion. "And you didn't insist on interrogating her under torture or anything before you accepted. That's not like you. Are you feeling ill, too?"

"Laugh if you want to," Loghain grumbled. "I did not even know there _were_ women knights. I had no cause to trust her, save instinct. Had she been a spy or a scout, she would surely have had a more plausible tale."

"Well, I trust you and your instincts. Besides, I am feeling better. Yes, there are knights who are women—not many, for it's a hard life, but there are Terynas and Arlessas who prefer to have women knights to guard them, and my mother would have been glad to…" he fell silent. "but no matter. I wonder if she's found that squire of hers yet?"

* * *

A/N: Thanks and virtual homemade caramel ice cream to my reviewers: Enchanter T.I.M., Golden Naginata, and now Apollo Wings! A big Mwaah to all you readers!


	6. Things Said In Confidence

Cailan decided he really quite liked Lady Flemeth—she was a wonderfully sympathetic listener, for one thing, besides having amazing breasts, and a marvelous hostess. She had provided him with quite a feast—fruits preserved in honey, soft fresh bread with ripe cheeses to spread on it, smoked fish, and plenty of an unfamiliar wine which had a refreshing hint of bitterness underneath its surface flavors.

"-and Anora, now, dun't get me wrong, dun't get me wrong, I _love_ my wife, but she doezzzn't re-spect me," he told Flemeth the words coming out thick and strange on his tongue. "Iz nothin' she says, but a man can tell. Also, she doezn't make any noise or move any more when I bed her. Putz a man off, that kinda think. Thing. Not that I bed her that offen anymore. What's the point, when nothin' ever comes of it? No lil' bebbies. Whasssa point of a man plowin' and plowin' and seedin' barren ground?"

"The line of Calenhad never was very fruitful," Flemeth murmured, toying with the green glass stem of her goblet. Given the color of the stem and the color of the wine in it, the glass as a whole looked like the darkest possible purple-red tulip. "It's the fault of the dragon blood. It's almost as bad as the Blight that way. I'm so glad I arraigned for you to have a half-brother."

"I havva brudder?" Cailan was feeling very, very good indeed, better than the wine alone could account for. Why couldn't he always feel like this? What was the point of being king if you didn't feel good? "I didn' know I hadda brudder."

"You do, and you've even met him, although you don't remember. His name is Alistair. Do you know what I see when I look at you, dear boy?" Flemeth reached out to cup his chin in her hand with a tingly caress.

"Thuh sexiesst man you ever saw in yer life?" he leered at her.

"An oversized child who inherited all the weaknesses of both his parents and precious few of their virtues. That's why I always arrange to have you killed off at the start of the Blight. Never in your life, as a king or as a man, have you managed to accomplish any of the things that people asked of you, the things you vowed to do. Worst of all, you never even _tried_. Those luxuries you take for granted, the silk clothes and fine food, the golden crown and the many lovers, they don't come for free. They have to be paid for—if not with your physical or mental toil, then with blood. Your life, in other words. No, don't try to get up, the paralytic I put in your glass is very strong and effective, unlike you. Just lie back and listen.

"Do you know what would happen if I did nothing to change the course of history? Fereldan would be wiped out entirely by the Blight, and a great deal of the rest of Thedas, too. So I do a bit of pruning here, wire a branch of Time to flow in another direction there, choose a Warden-Hero from among the eight best candidates, and then things play out more or less the way I planned. Usually your brother becomes king, and he always makes a better job of it than you do. I have done this over and over again, and I confess it's getting rather boring.

"Perhaps that's why I gave Ser Cauthrien that wish—to introduce a random factor, shake things up a bit, for all that I hedged my bet by putting so many conditions on it. I never imagined her heart's desire would lead her back to this time. I wonder what it was she wished for exactly? Well," she said, reaching over and patting his knee. "We'll just have a comfy coze right here until she, your father, and Loghain get here, shan't we? Although I'm not sure exactly what I shall have to say, thanks to the changes she's already made. How exciting this is!"

Cailan was not entirely sure he agreed, and there were a number of things he would have liked to say on that subject, but it seemed the only part of his body he could currently move were his eyelids, so he closed them. Opening them again seemed like too much of an effort, so he left them closed, and drifted off into dreams where he returned home victorious after wiping out the Blight singlehandedly, and the grateful population cheered him through the streets where all the pretty girls were stark naked and begging him to take them.

* * *

Although improved, Maric was still broken-winded, too weak to walk much, so they stayed put in the camp. When the herbs no longer had any usefulness to them, Loghain managed to make a sort of broth out of pounded jerky and water, which was better than nothing, and the day went by without incident.

At dusk, Ser Cauthrien returned. "Hello-o?," she called out. "It's me, I haven't found my squire, and there are no Orlesians for miles, unless you count dead ones. May I approach, or are you going to shoot me full of arrows?" She sounded exhausted.

"I haven't the arrows to spare," Loghain called back, quashing the leap of his spirits at the sound of her voice. She appeared from among the trees, leading the horses. "I see you found the saddle," he commented, gesturing to the dust-colored horse. It had beautiful lines but an ugly coat. Hers was decent but unremarkable.

"Yes, and a place where my squire might have been thrown off, but no blood, so I can't say what happened to him. I see your friend's doing better." Cauthrien nodded toward Maric.

"I am, thanks to you, Lady Cauthrien. I am sorry I could not greet you properly before. I'm Hyram," Maric, smiled, giving the false name more smoothly than the first time he'd tried to use it, when he originally met Loghain. He cocked his head, scanning her face. "You know, you rather remind me of—well, of someone I know, Lady Rowan, the daughter of the Arl of Redcliffe. You don't look that much alike, but you're the same type, so to speak."

"Never met her, and I never knew I was a type," Cauthrien shrugged. "And it is 'Ser', not 'Lady'. I came up from the ranks and I'm as common as briers in a hedgerow, but I earned that title…I should not speak so tartly, when I came to ask a favor. Since I have not found my squire, and it grows dark, I ask that I might share your campsite tonight. And I mean the campsite, and not your bedrolls."

"We've no bedrolls, so that part is easily done," Maric laughed. "Neither of us would think of treating you with anything but courtesy, Ser Cauthrien. You are welcome among us. Let us not talk of favors."

"Do you want help with the horses?" Loghain interrupted. So the prince could speak charmingly to her, where he could not? That rankled—yet she met his charm with cool defiance. That pleased him, though he was loathe to admit why.

He still could not stop staring.

"I would welcome the help," she turned to him, handed off the reins of the dust-colored horse. "Here, take Imperator. Ash doesn't like able-bodied men, and he'll balk or bite. Watch for mischief from that one, though."

There was the stream where he had drawn water for the tea, and they watered the horses there before leading them to a clearing near their campsite. For some time they worked together in silence to make the horses comfortable for the night as well as securing them. She had brushes, a hoof pick and blankets for them, and the way she groomed her sturdy mount told him it was second nature to her. For his part, he discovered that the dust color of the other horse was, in fact dust, and underneath that was a rich gold coat and a white mane and tail.

"Showy beast," he grunted. "Must have cost somebody a lot. Your squire's?"

"Yes," she replied. "Too showy. It'll be conspicuous on the battlefield, but…it was the one he wanted."

"Rich family, then?"

"Something like that," she agreed.

"How did your horse pick up a dislike of able-bodied men?"

"I don't know. He _will_ carry an injured or disabled man without bucking, he's calm and well-behaved with women and children, but any able-bodied man who tries to mount him soon wishes he hadn't. He was a bargain for that reason, although what I saved in choosing him, I've spent to sooth unhappy stablemen and grooms." she replied, teasing burrs out of the horse's fetlocks.

"Are you truly common born, or was that merely something you said to counter his talk of ladies and arls?"

It was strange. He disliked making conversation. Silence, in his opinion, was better, never mind that it put most people's noses out of joint when he answered in grunts and glares. Somehow talking with her was easy, comfortable. He was not used to that. Perhaps it was because she did not ask questions in return. She accepted him as he was, or at least she seemed to.

Her reply was very soft and low-pitched. "I do wonder that he speaks so easily of arls and ladies. It seems to me to be indiscreet." She paused a moment. "Yes, I am common born."

"I, too." He sounded abrupt to his own ears, so after a moment, he added, "My father was a freeholder. He bred horses, not giants like these two, but cobs. None too big, but strong and reliable." His grief for his father was too fresh to say more; this ripped open the scab on a wound that had not begun to heal.

"Then I wonder why you are in the company of one who is on easy terms with nobility." It was not a question.

"As you said earlier today, you and I are not on terms of great friendship," No, that was harshly put, so he went on, "not yet," That was too hopeful. "or perhaps ever, but I wonder that myself."

* * *

"You knave," Maric whispered to him back at camp, "you never said she was lovely. Ser Cauthrien," he said, raising his voice, "forgive my curiosity, for I have nothing but respect for your achievements, but I have never known of any woman who went forth as a wandering knight save Ser Aveline of ancient memory. Have you always been so, or only since you left Kirkwall? And how did you come to misplace your squire?"

Cauthrien looked at him thoughtfully for a moment, then smiled wryly. "I think that if one took half _your_ good cheer and friendliness, and half Loghain's caution and silence for the purpose of combining them in one man, the balance would be perfect. I am caught between two extremes. No, I was not always a hedge knight, for all that I compare myself to hedgerows, but there are things I can't speak of, being bound by oaths. My squire was…wished upon me, for lack of a better way of putting it, very much against his will. He thought that once we were here, my authority over him was null and void, and I had to show him he was not half the fighter he thought he was. Hence the broken nose, and his taking off in the night."

"His people have money, it seems," Loghain commented. "His horse is a High-Blood, where hers is part Anderfels Dray and part Warm-Blood. What did this lordling do that his family had to send him out of the country in your charge, and how much did they pay you?"

"It wasn't what he did so much as what he is," she admitted. "A spoiled, cosseted by-blow, not wanted now that there is a true heir. And the pay isn't nearly enough, but I gave my word. I'm to guard him as much as mentor him, which is difficult when he's missing."

"That's too bad," Maric sympathized, "but if something does happen to him, I don't see how they can blame you. The lives of knights and squires are not easy or without danger."

"There was more to it than that," Cauthrien stared into the fire. "The lord I served—not his father, thank the Maker, but his father's best friend—arranged the whole thing. He took me into his service when I was barely more than a child, and he places a great deal of confidence in me. He is not a man who gives his trust readily, and I could not bear to disappoint him."

"You are in love with him," Loghain said, and it came out sounding very like an accusation.

Another wry smile. "For ten years, and he never saw it. Or perhaps he did and chose not to notice. He is much older than I, and a widower with a daughter close to me in age, married and settled away from him. If I am anything to him, it is perhaps a substitute for her. There is only so long the heart can bear that..."

"Don't grieve over him," he grated out. "If he overlooked you, that—is his loss."

"Thank you," she replied, and turned her head to look at his companion. "Now that I've been forthcoming, I've a question of my own for you, Ser. You're actually Prince Maric, are you not?"

* * *

A/N: No, Flemeth is not molesting a paralyzed Cailan. She has more taste than that. Thank you to those who have most recently added me to your follows and faves—you know who you are! Any feedback you might have for me would be much appreciated.

And my sincerest gratitude to Apollo Wings and Enchanter T.I.M.!


	7. In Camp

Loghain leapt the fire even while drawing his sword, but Cauthrien was ready. She knew him, knew what he was likely to do, so she had her plate-mailed arm up to take the sword blow, rolled with his lunge. His blade turned on her armor, caught on the cowter plate at the elbow. He snarled in anger, trying to find leverage enough to pull it back, but she headbutted him in the mouth. They rolled, locked together and fighting for possession of his sword arm.

"Loghain, no!" Maric cried out futilely. The rest of his protests went ignored.

He was bigger, heavier than she, with a male's greater upper body strength; she was in heavy armor where he wore leather, and had spent hundreds of hours training with the warrior he would become. His favored moves were second nature to her. So she should have had the advantage…

He relaxed suddenly, letting her shove him away, which gave him the space to free his sword, bring it up to her throat. The problem was, he wasn't yet who he would be. His style was wild and raw_, he_ was younger and stronger, and if he was less skilled, he was also furious and trying to kill her in earnest. Her vambraced forearm kept the blade from her neck, but her legs were free, and she locked them around his waist suddenly, a mockery of sex, and with a heave, levered him off her. He rolled away and on to his feet in one smooth move, but his sword had been lost in the underbrush. He dove for it.

While he was occupied with that, she rolled to her knees and seized the Summer Sword. "I worked it out from this camp, his talk about arls and ladies, and things I heard bruited about in the towns and back in Kirkwall," she gritted through her teeth while getting to her feet. "You think Fereldan exists all to itself, and the rest of the world doesn't know about him? About Queen Moira?"

Loghain had found his sword and assumed a fighting stance, tensed for further conflict.

"Loghain, that's enough! " Maric interposed himself between the two of them. "That's enough! Calm yourself. You're seeing a threat where there isn't one. I was stupid and I talked about things I shouldn't have. Don't blame Ser Cauthrien for that. If she was going to inform on us to anyone, she wouldn't have said anything. Instead she would have left quietly in the morning and the next thing we knew, there'd be troops everywhere! She is not our enemy! "

Loghain, breathing hard, considered this for a moment, then nodded, lowering his weapon.

"Apologize to her," Maric commanded, making a 'come on, come on' gesture.

"Later," he replied, glowering. "I need air."

"Now. Just a word or two and it is done. Come now, man. I am sure she will bear no grudges."

"I crave your pardon," Loghain muttered, walking away.

"Ah—I'm sorry about that," Maric apologized.

"No need to apologize," she replied. "These are desperate times."

Loghain overheard that as he stalked off into the woods. He was more than ready to break off from that conversation and from the group. His inner turmoil threatened to boil over if he remained with them, near her. That struggle with her had fired his blood. He wanted to have quite another kind of tussle with her, and that horrified him. Witnessing his mother's brutal mass rape and murder, at an age when he had scarce realized that men did with women what the stallions did with the mares, had left him with a loathing for all manner of violence directed against women.

He had sworn to himself he would never raise his hand to a woman, any woman.

And what had he just done to Ser Cauthrien?

Not long after that, when he reached his virility and realized his body insisted on wanting to do some of the same things which so repelled and appalled him. It had taken the help of a woman who was a little older than he (and much more worldly) to get over it, for which he was very grateful. Since then there had been two others over the years, but only when they made it clear they were more than willing. Love had certainly never been part of it. Life in the camp was too desperate, too uncertain, and often too brief for softer emotions.

Then this morning a woman unlike any he had ever seen rode into camp, and…he could not stop staring at her. She was stunning…there was no better word for it. Intelligent and witty, resourceful—and not so high-born that she would despise him, no, not high-born at all. Never mind that he had no time nor room for love in his life, no matter that his heart was yet torn over his father's death—some cruel and capricious fate had thrown her into his path, and he, yes, he would admit it to himself—he had fallen in love with her.

Loghain wondered what sort of man it was that Cauthrien had loved for so long. In his mind, he pictured her lord as the next best thing to a Chantry brother, verging on elderly, pious, mild, and virtuous. He also thought of Maric, golden, handsome, and a prince, who was even now talking to her, and that was worse. He was not handsome, he knew, having features too hard and harsh, nor charming or anything else that might move a woman. It would be better if he were to keep away from her, lest he be tempted to…further folly.

Nevertheless, he returned to the camp very shortly, where Cauthrien was improvising a stew of horse meat with wild garlic, walnuts, and cattail roots. He accepted a bowl and ate in moody silence. It was not bad.

"The way you stare at her, I don't know whether you want to kiss her or kill her," the prince whispered to Loghain.

"Don't whisper, the hissing travels," Loghain replied in a normal voice. "You are a fighter, Ser Cauthrien, I'll give you that."

"Thank you. Since it's grudgingly given, I'll give it back. So are you," she replied.

"I had rather not let you out of my sight," he said.

"It's a little soon to be talking like that," Cauthrien retorted, "I don't trust men who claim to be smitten so quickly."

"Ah! A hit! A palpable hit!," Maric laughed.

Loghain turned on him. "My father died for you scant days ago," he snarled, "and now you make mock of me?"

"I—that's what friends do," the prince replied, taken aback.

"We are not friends," he threw back at him. "Nothing changes the fact that she knows who you are. What place is there for a wandering knight and her even more wandering squire in a country at war with a conqueror? You must choose a side. Neutrality is not possible in this time, in this place; not choosing, accepting things as they are, means siding with the Orlesians. "

"It was my intent to join with those fighting for the cause of Fereldan freedom," she replied. "We of the Free Marches are notoriously independent, even of each other. Yet I must find my squire before I can formally pledge to anything. "

"What if he has already been captured by the Orlesians?" Loghain asked.

"He killed two of them yesterday, but if he encountered them again, I'm not sure what he would do. He's headstrong and foolish enough for anything. I will look for him again on the morrow. It is useless to say what I'll do until I find him, and I must find him, living or dead. " She turned away and began setting up her area of the camp for the night.

Well, she had finally told him she loved him, even if he was not yet the Loghain she had first realized she loved at the age of fifteen, and even though he still did not know it. Maker, how it ached, in her chest, in her head, throbbing in her temples, making her joints feel weak. At thirteen she thought it was what everybody else said it was, just a tremendous case of hero worship. Maybe it had been, back then. Now it was a sadness that ate away at her heart, which she could give to no one else while he lived.

Seeing him, in this time where they were of an age, hurt like being rolled around in a bag of broken glass. His face without his life engraved on it, without all the hard lines, without the pain, the scars, the weight of responsibility which made it sag when no one was looking. Cauthrien would have given a great deal for enough privacy to have a good cry, and she never cried anymore. She wished he looked happier.

As she bedded down with her saddlebag for a pillow and her cloak for a covering, she reviewed in her mind what she knew of this era. The histories were dry and curt, not given to much speculation or offering up the sort of details that illuminated events, since Loghain was still alive and might well object to what they wrote about him and about the late king and queen.

Yet once, on bivouac, when she had gone to wake him for his watch, he had asked her, still half-dreaming, "Rowan?" in such a voice that made her want to cry even remembering it. There had been rumors about her and him, and that one word, her name had convinced Cauthrien that they were true. Loghain Mac Tir had loved Queen Rowan.

Could she perhaps convince Lady Rowan Guerrin that being (eventually) a Teryna was better than being Queen?

* * *

A/N: My great thanks to Mike, Apollo Wings, Enchanter T.I.M., Golden Naginata, and RohanVos for their reviews, and to those who added me to their lists.


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